My fingers flex on my lap, and now I wish I had something to at least take the edge off. I’m not a big drinker. I drink when I feel like it, and it just so happens that I don’t feel like it often. I’m also not a very nice drunk. I get sloppy, weird, and say things I don’t mean--the exact reason why I people watch, so I try to avoid it or keep it to minimal sips at best.
“And why don’t you drink, Dove?” Val further asks, studying me. Why does she keep looking at me like I’ve kicked her puppy?
I shrug. “It’s not that I don’t.” My eyes flick to King briefly, who is still watching me. Did he realize that I didn’t touch my drink during our game of sixers? No. Surely not. That would mean that he was paying close enough attention to me. “It’s just that I don’t often.”
Val seems to think over her next words, but when our little party turns into a rager, with more people piling in, she yanks her eyes away from me and zones in on Kingston. She pushes up from her chair, and even though there’s a swarm of people walking around and grabbing drinks now, I can’t help but force myself to watch her climb onto King’s lap as if she belongs there. My throat goes dry, so I look away quickly, not wanting to get caught stalking. I never would have thought they were something. King seems so unattainable. He’s like top shelf alcohol, nice to look at and dream about, but you just know that one taste will knock you on your ass. I find Rose watching me. She offers a soft smile, and then passes me her cup, moving her chair directly beside mine, on the other side of Maya.
“If I’m right,” Rose says, pointing to the glass, “you need that.”
I raise the glass and take a small sip. The beer rests on my lips before I swallow it.
“Actually, I might go take a walk. I’ll see you a bit later?” I say to Rose, who is now taking the joint off Maya.
“Do you want me to come with you?” She wraps her lips around the end and inhales.
I shake my head. “No. I just need some air.”
I look to Maya, who’s ignoring me. “Bye, Maya.”
Her eyes come lazily to mine. She has the worst resting bitch face I think I’ve ever seen. “Bye,” she answers flatly, before looking out into the distance. As I turn on my steps and make my way to God knows where, I try to figure out whether Maya is weird, disturbed, or just a recluse. I had a plan to walk around until I ended up back at our RV, but the tent is already set up, and it instantly catches my eye.
Neon lilacs, obscure blacks, and dusty greys illuminate the dark night, like a warning on what’s to come. Midnight Mayhem is an evident reminder that the myths were true. Monsters really do come out at night.
“Little Bird, are you lost?” Delila interrupts my stalking.
I spin around to face her and watch as she puts the end of a cigarette into her mouth. She inhales and then exhales softly.
“No. I was heading back to my—the RV.”
Delila comes forward, taking my hand in hers. “Follow me, lost one.”
I don’t have a chance to refuse because she’s dragging me toward the opening of the tent. It’s much larger than the one that was set up at her house and bigger than the average circus style one. Instead of red and white stripes, it’s lilac and black, and there are little fairy lights embedded into the material. A big sign hangs over the entrance, and in messy black writing outlined in lilac reads Midnight Mayhem.
Delila pauses at the threshold, waving her hand inside. “Come on. It’s not all set up yet, but the floor is open.”
I am about to say that I’m impressed with the fact that this monstrous tent is already set up so quickly when I realize what she had just said.
“What do you mean ‘the floor is open’” I ask, falling into step behind her. As soon as I enter, I almost trip on my own feet. There are no chairs right now, but the floor is set up. There’s a makeshift stage that sits behind one large circus patch, which lies empty.
“I mean,” Delila stomps on her smoke, putting it out, “I want to see you lose yourself.” Her eyes drop to my feet. “Let me guess, ballet?”
My eyes snap to hers after hungrily eating up the space. “Yes. How’d you know?”
“The way you walk.” She snaps her fingers, and a boy around my age comes rushing forward, swiping sweat off his forehead. I don’t pay him much attention because Delila is still talking. “Fetch me a chair and some scotch. Is the sound ready?”
The young guy nods submissively. “Enough to run some music through, but not all the way set up.”
Delila nods, and he disappears, running off to grab her royal highness her items.
She watches me carefully, as if intrigued. “You’re not drinking with the rest of them. Why?” She lights up another smoke, and I seriously wonder what this woman’s act is and how she keeps so fit while smoking so many cigarettes.
“Drinking isn’t really my scene.”
“Hmmm,” she answers, sitting down on the chair the young man brought back. He also places a small table beside her that holds a bottle of scotch and a clear tumbler glass. “Interesting for a girl of your age.”
I want to remind her that I’m not a teenager. I don’t need to party like one either, but instead, I say, “When life has taken control of you in the form of tragic incidents, it’s hard to allow something so hollow to fill the empty parts of your life.”
She flicks the smoke between her thumb and her index finger. “Huh. You’re smart. Lucky me.” She exhales, flicking her wrist to the stage. “Sorry to say I don’t have a leotard, but there are some slippers there and shorts and a hoodie. I want free, Dove. I don’t want a dance that you have to work for. I want Dove Noctem Hendry flying across my stage.”
“Okay.” I turn, making my way to the makeshift stage. I have no idea what I’m doing in regards to whatever it is that she expects, but I’ll do what she advised I do—dance.
As soon as I’ve ducked onto the stage, I hide behind a red curtain and strip off my skinny jeans and shoes, squeezing on the white shorts she left me—that are more like booty shorts—and then throw on the grey hoodie. I prefer to dance in tight clothes when it’s constricted movements that I want to accentuate.
Pink silk slippers catch my eye, and my heart slows in my chest. I haven’t worn them in so long. Since before my parents died. I tug at my hair, pulling it down from the high ponytail. I run my fingers through it as I weigh my options. I want to see if I still have it, but another part of me thinks I’m not ready. The part that thinks I’m not ready is usually the same part that keeps me awake every night from overthinking.
“Sorry,” the guy from earlier interrupts my pacing. “Do you have a song request?”
“‘Breathe from Mako, please.”
The young guy disappears back the way he came, and I go back to stressing about the slippers. Slowly, I reach down to touch the soft silk. “Your arabesque is so much better, Dove. Keep at it.” Sharon, my tutor, looked down at her phone and answered it. “Hello? Yes, no, Dove is here. She’s doing great, Mrs. Hendry. Much better. Okay, thank you.” She hung up the phone and smiled sweetly at me. “Your mother is proud of you. You are very lucky.”